“Dearest Lady Fitzhenry, I would not for the world give you false hopes; but, I still repeat, that all will be well; you deserve to be happy, and heaven will take care that you shall be so. Fitzhenry has been infatuated, blinded, deceived, every way. But his eyes are now opened, and, (not for the world would I deceive you, even to give you one moment of false happiness,) trust me, he admires and loves you; I was certain such excellence could not long be thrown away upon one so fitted to appreciate it. The fatal madness which has hitherto rendered him insensible to his real happiness, is now at an end—on my honour it is.
“I have time for no more; the carriage is at the door; I am only waiting for Fitzhenry; he knows I am writing to you; you shall ere long hear from me again.”
Emmeline hardly knew what to conclude from this letter; she read it over and over. Sometimes she interpreted its contents favourably to her feelings; but, in general, the impression it left was not that of hope. She believed Pelham, when he told her that Fitzhenry’s connexion with Lady Florence was at an end; she must believe such solemn assurances; but what had she gained? Her rival, no longer the cause, still her husband fled from her. What could that mean, but that still she had to encounter settled, determined aversion? for he was leaving England without one word, one attempt at reconciliation—and with no time even named for his return. In short, in spite of Pelham’s encouragement, she felt but too well convinced their separation was for ever.
Sorrow sunk deeply into Emmeline’s heart; but, for her parent’s sake, she resolved to exert herself. She left her room, agreed to go out into the fresh air; acquiesced in whatever was proposed to her; forced herself to converse on indifferent subjects; and even sometimes endeavoured at cheerfulness. But such exertions could not deceive. The “sickness of hope deferred,” preyed on her health; she grew daily thinner; and her cheeks were either deadly pale, or flushed with the deepest feverish crimson.
Poor Mrs. Benson gazed at her in silent anxiety. There was their Emmeline again returned to them, to the same place, the same quiet home, avocations and duties she used to perform; but, how changed! Formerly, she was their joy, their pride: to look on her laughing eyes, and on her fresh smooth cheek, had been enough to make them happy; but now the sight was misery. Mr. Benson also was changed. Though sometimes, in the kind endeavour to cheer his melancholy companions, he attempted to resume his usual loquacity, and even tried his bad jokes; yet, as they no longer proceeded from an exuberantly happy heart, they had lost their only merit; and, seeing how ill they in general succeeded, and that his intended wit and mirth oftener forced tears than smiles from his suffering daughter, he at last gave up the attempt entirely, and seemed to resign himself to the sadness which oppressed him. He appeared also to have entirely lost his usual bustling activity. He often stood for hours at the window, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the blue sky and green grass, objects which he had never been seen to gaze at before; or, sitting with the newspaper in his hand, reading over and over the same page, almost unconscious of the words before him; for now, neither public news, nor even the price of stocks, seemed to have power to arrest his attention.
Fitzhenry was never named among them, nor that painful subject any way alluded to.
One day, however, that Mr. Benson and Emmeline were alone together, after the former had, as was now usual to him, sat a long time silent, he suddenly looked up, and, addressing her in the decided tone of one who has well considered the matter of which he is about to treat—
“Emmy!” said he—for he had now quite left off calling her Lady Fitzhenry, which he had, with apparently proud satisfaction after her marriage, always done—“Emmy, I have indulged your fancies all this time—I have complied with your request—I have said nothing—done nothing. In short, to please you, I have, in truth, made but a silly figure; but this cannot go on—it is impossible—you cannot yourself wish it. Something decided must be settled between you and your husband.”
Emmeline’s pale cheek grew still paler, and, in answer, she put into her father’s hand Mr. Pelham’s last letter. He read it over and over and over several times, looked at the date, the signature, the direction, even with the precaution and accuracy of business, and then returning it—
“I can’t make head or tail of it. Lord Fitzhenry and you, Emmy, and your diplomatic champion, are all beyond my comprehension. I declare I don’t know what any of you would be at. If your husband has turned off his kept mistress, as I suppose he has by this, (shame on him ever to have had one—and another man’s wife, too, into the bargain,) why, now the coast is clear, why can’t he come and fetch you, his lawful wife, home, and live respectably, and be at least decently civil to you. What the deuce is he gone abroad for? unless indeed it is to look out for some new lady, being, I suppose, tired of the old one—for such madams, I believe, abound at Paris. In short, Emmy, I will not let this sort of thing go on any longer. I will give you one month; and if during that time, your husband makes no advances towards a reconciliation, I will then come forward. Surely, Emmeline, your own pride must make you wish that I should.”